A/N: Based on photos and promos, we've written a short story-a few chapters-on how we'd like to see when CSI airs its last episode. Enjoy-and, as always, we would appreciate a review!
In the waning hours of a fogless summer night, the sounds made by the small dingy seemed as loud as a towboat pushing an ocean-going ship but were almost unnoticeable if anyone had been paying attention. The dark-clothed figure in the dingy pulled an oar into the small boat and let the ripple of his last row carry him to the side of a much larger boat.
A sharp vibration rippled beneath his feet as the two vessels touched. Expecting the tremor did not make it less startling but Gil Grissom quickly prepared for boarding the larger boat. Months ago, he had gotten "sea legs"; adapting to the rhythmic waves bobbing the boats in the harbor was the least of his worries as he hefted a waterproof bag to his shoulder.
He had followed this sleek sailing boat from Mexico's Sea of Cortez; he and three others had watched as smugglers had not even attempted to disguise their activities. Yet the smugglers were the small fish, not worthy of time it would take to have them arrested. The crew of this boat—with their expensive clothes, cars, and women—were near the top of the chain.
The forty-seven foot yacht was designed for high performance sailing yet as the crew sailed it along the coast of Mexico and California, they had never pushed the sail boat to its potential. The smaller, older boat Grissom sailed had been able to stay within sight of this one, almost overtaking it as they reached San Diego. He had watched as the crew had brought it in, waited as they left the boat, returned, and left again dressed for a night on the town. An hour later, he was in the dingy rowing across the harbor.
Carefully, his hand found a cleat and he pulled himself into the cockpit finding purchase on the non-slip surface. Silently, he thanked designers for making all sailboats similar as he slid back the hatch and opened the door. Seconds later, he was in the main cabin.
Using a small flashlight and a very expensive camera, he quickly opened cabinets in the galley, moving a few things around with his gloved hand, before turning to berths lined along the sides. He could not do a methodically search but knowing what he was looking for helped. Rapidly, he took photographs. And in the aft cabin, he found it, taking more photographs of the smugglers' treasure. In the excitement of his discovery, he had failed to hear the warning—a whistle blown by one of the three men who knew what he was doing—before the rapid tattoo of boots on the dock caused him to look up. Alarm and disbelief etched across his face. After all the months, after all the carefully concealed work, after the stealth and silence, it had come to this.
He heard boots hit the deck as he entered the main cabin, having enough time to hit "upload" on the camera, and holding his hands above his head, he shouted, "I'm below deck—not armed. My hands are above my head." He knew the drill and yet he was surprised at the appearance of what appeared to be a swat team surrounding the hatch. All pointing assault weapons at him.
A/N: And another chapter soon!